MOB SISTERS - Nick

5.

Nick Condon, junior Senator from California, had all the earmarks of a future President of the United States, Jasmine thought. They met in Palm Springs. Nick's eyes were darkly sardonic as he slowly puffed on a briar pipe. He smiled; their eyes met. He was a subtly attractive man, dark haired, olive skinned, charismatic.

Their dialog was demure and suggestive. The Senator said, "You smell so good. Are you as dangerous as I think you are?" And when Jasmine replied, "More dangerous than you think," his answer was, "I don't care! I have the feeling you can do things to me no other woman ever has."

"What kind of things?"

"The hell with telling you. I want you to do them."

Jasmine said, "Are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into, Senator? After all, you're talking to one of the world's leading criminal minds."

"Really? How interesting," he laughed. "What crimes have you committed? I can think of a couple of acts considered felonies in several states I'd love to have you do with me."

"Well, them, perhaps we could explore this further, if you're interested."

"I am interested. Very interested. But you still haven't told me the crimes you specialize in."

Her voice soft and breathless, Jasmine told him she was involved in "a wide variety of criminal acts ... paper crimes ... drug dealing ... gambling, numbers, prostitution ... " Her voice was a low whisper. "Would you like an entire listing of my dossier?"

"No, that won't be necessary," he said. "I expect I could run an M.O. on you."

"You could," she said, "only law enforcement hasn't caught up with me yet."

"Ah, well, then I guess I'll have to accept your word for it — that you are indeed a dangerous woman."

"Now that we've got that straight — "

"Baby, I have to see you. Tell me when?"

It was his choice to believe she was joking.


While still recuperating from her Turkish nightmare, through surveillance, Vic learned about Jasmine's new VIP lover. Senator Condon could be useful to the LFM, both for his political influence and also as a target of potential blackmail. They'd keep especially close watch here.

Nick rang the doorbell at Jasmine's East 63rd Street townhouse. Jasmine admitted him to the marble-tiled entrance hall. He was carrying flowers and a bottle of wine wrapped in a brown paper bag, and his erection was already protruding from his pants.

The entryway opened into a curved foyer containing myriads of dogwood branches suspended in lucite boxes against beige linen wallcovering. Nick was no sooner standing there, having handed over his gifts, than he made a grab.

"Nick, Nick -- this is so abrupt."

"We don't have all that much time, and I've thought about you constantly — "

Jasmine insisted on small talk first. Dutifully, he admired the bleached pickled oak flooring and modular units upholstered in grosspointe, the bessarabian carpet and French art deco chairs in the living room. Near a melon-colored velvet couch, huge vases of calla lilies and apple blossoms were displayed on chrome and lucite tables. Softly, Liszt's Transcendental Etudes, allegro agitato molto in F minor # 10, Van Cliburn at the piano, played in the background.

"This is your family's residence, I presume?"

"No, it's mine," Jasmine said. She offered him the wine he'd brought. "This is the house that cocaine bought, and it's mine, all mine. I did alert you to my criminal tendencies, remember?"

"I remember."

After jockeying and positioning, they finally ended up in the bedroom. It was furnished in luxury, the piece de résistance being the empire Malmaison bed strewn with cushions in soft earth tones. Nick dropped his pants immediately, and they went at it. Later, they luxuriated in a tub of warm, perfumed water together while she fed him crushed strawberries with sour cream, rubbing the mixture over his body while simultaneously popping the delicacies into his mouth.

He wanted to know, "What are you doing all over the world — Asia, South America, Europe, everywhere? Are you independently wealthy? Do you have a rich boyfriend? You're a woman of mystery. You truly fascinate me."

"Do I?"

"You have beautiful clothes, an affluent life style, a fabulous home at an exclusive address, you stay in pricey hotels — you come and go as you please. What enables it?"

"Tell me, Nick," Jasmine asked, "would you go to a man's home and ask him how can you afford this? Do you have a rich girlfriend? Is your family wealthy? Did you inherit your home? How do you pay your hotel bills? Where do you get the money to buy your clothes?"

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded." He seemed genuinely apologetic. "But what exactly is it do you do?" he persisted, "other than the obvious?"

"My primary work is with the mafia," she answered, popping another strawberry in his mouth and planting an ardent kiss on his lips.

"Of course. Anyone can see you're a made woman." Obviously, he didn't believe a word she'd told him.

"When you think mafia with me, Nick, get the idea of LCN, La Cosa Nostra, out of your mind. My alliance is with another order of mafia altogether ... a female mafia. We're nationwide."

"A woman's mafia — an idea whose time had come," Nick said, laughing at the thought. "I love it, I love it! It must be very profitable."

"Very. My people and I import cocaine, enabling other aspects of my life to function, my legit ventures, for instance. I'm building a catalog business, my designer licenses are taking off, I'm opening a boutique on Madison Avenue soon. I have my own legit designer line, Jasmine Jeans, and then I also manufacture knockoffs, counterfeit designer clothes, goods like fake Guccis, Vuitton luggage, Omega watches and other name brands."

Vic couldn't believe her ears when she heard Jasmine even confide that one of her narcotics covers was an import-export firm specializing in furniture, fabrics, rugs and jewelry, and that her consigliere, Sandra, also operated under cover of a South American powdered milk firm that exported dehydrated milk products to the US and Canada — perfect for the narcotics smuggling operation. Nothing like letting the entire cat out of the bag.

Only Nick didn't believe any of it. He was really getting a kick out of this. "But tell me, allocation of capital is strictly controlled, only a small segment of society has access to that market, most people can't get a foot in the door. How did you qualify? Through bank robbery?"

"No, that's one thing we don't do, at least not with a gun. We do it in more subtle ways -- often using rental or counterfeit collateral, kiting, that sort of thing."

"I should have guessed. Well, what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. As far as counterfeit collateral is concerned, the Treasury Department figures there's at least fifty billion or more in bogus collateral floating around the nation's top corporations. Spain's entire Costa del Sol was built on counterfeit collateral. Just a minor deception to make the banks feel better."

"Makes a lot of sense to me."

"Anyway, so-called crime is dependent on definition, on what current laws are on the books, who's your lawyer and accountant, what judges you have in your pocket. Almost anything can be rationalized, including conspiracy, fraud, and obstruction of justice."

Jasmine was massaging the strawberry/sour cream mixture into his scalp now. She said, "This is very good for your circulation, and it will help make your hair grow healthier. So now that you know all about me, about my life of crime, how do you feel?"

"I love you with all my heart," Nick said, his eyes closed in mellow relaxation. "And to tell you the truth, I'm wildly jealous. I wish I could join the female mafia myself."

"A number of men have said that, but obviously you can't — not ours. Anyway, you already have a mafia of your own, the Beltway Mafia. All you Washington hotshots are mafioso as hell."

"You know, I think I'm falling in love with you," Nick said, turning to her and looking at her with a startled expression.



6.

Now that Jack and she were no longer together, LFM business was occupying Terri's total energies. Plans for Balls were progressing, she'd hired renovators to knock out walls and replaster. She was still consulting with painters and decorators and looking at fabrics and furniture, although an overall theme for the decor still had not emerged in her mind.

In addition, she was involved in heavy meetings with her attorneys and accountants regarding a number of off-shore shells out of U.S. jurisdiction, hence not subject to regulation, in which money could make more money through simple manipulations like inflated balance sheets, rented deposits from money brokers, dead collateral and so forth. These in turn were juggled to obtain loans to finance other projects.

Corrado occupied her thoughts on a constant basis. While she hadn't heard from him, no doubt his travels the world over could explain the lapse in communication. She envisioned him transacting important deals among the mahogany parlors, staid oil paintings and Victorian atmosphere of British finance.

This man stirred her blood as never before. The rapport was fantastic, magical, beyond anything she had ever known. She dreamed of melting into his being, their pelvises locked in belonging. In her fantasies, he lifted her buttocks onto him, his body started to slowly thrust inside her as he murmured in her ear and then finally they reached a climax together of such proportions the very earth shook on its foundations.

But what about the woman he'd been seen all over London with? Somehow, at the back of her mind it troubled her.

In a transatlantic call with Fiona, Terri asked if Fiona could find anything about Corrado's consort. The next day Fiona rang back to say the woman's name was Ingeborg Kessler, she was German and a big time operator on the international whoring scene, specializing in rich, powerful men.

"She's led this life, ducky," Fiona said. "She's definitely in it for the money. This Ingeborg is notorious. She's had some pretty lofty males in her day. For some reason, many of them have passed her around, and she keeps trading up. But get this, an unusual twist — Ingeborg Kessler is an identical twin, with a sister, Ingrid Kessler. They often work together. The men go wild."

"Oh, God, don't tell me."

"I'm afraid so. The sisters are both models based in Munich, but the pair has worked New York and Los Angeles too, London, Paris, Rome and Milan, up and down their native Germany, Spain, the middle east, Hong Kong — they're highly skilled and very expensive and they always get what they want."

"Oh, God," Terri groaned.

"These Nordic and Teutonic cookies are all so cold and calculating," Fiona said. "Yet men don't seem to know the difference ... it has to be an ego thing with him, that's all."

"What shall I do?"

"Darling, you ought not to worry, truly."

"How can you say that, Fiona?"

"Because it's obvious you really love this man and she doesn't... or they don't. And as long as you get exposure to him, he'll discover the difference. He'll come to realize what he's got going with Ingeborg — and to a lesser extent Ingrid — is superficial by contrast to you. Men aren't total dummies, you know, though it may sometimes seem that way. Eventually they catch onto a woman — women like this."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me, Terri, this kraut bitch is a flash in the pan."

"How long has it been going on thus far?"

"Maybe on and off for about five years."

"Five years! A flash in the pan?"

"Ducky, she is not important to him. Believe me, he could be very easily persuaded to leave her flat. It won't take much."

"Yes, but five years — "

"Some men are creatures of habit and lazy about extricating themselves. They settle in by default till the right woman convinces them they have reason to switch."

Terri was brooding over the new information, when (magic!) she connected with Corrado. She knew he kept an apartment at the Pierre, and as luck would have it she happened to phone there at the perfect time. He'd just arrived from the airport, he was on jet lag, in town for only 24 hours, but said he'd love to see her. She was on his doorstep in ten minutes flat, brazenly throwing herself at him, rushing into his arms as if they'd never been apart. How to describe the wild lust, the tenderness and immense passion, the deep connection on all levels — oh, God, to hole up with him forever and never let go!

The next day it was La Caravelle for lunch, Romeo Salta for dinner, more lovemaking — lord, it was crazy, loving a man who could made the adrenalin course through her veins and activate currents she had never felt before. Then in a flash he was gone once again, off for Hong Kong, and she was feeling empty without him.

No doubt he meant it in jest when he casually said, "If you were my mistress you would accompany me to Hong Kong."

It didn't sound like an offer and she didn't take it as one, but why had
he even thought of her in such a secondary, essentially dishonorable role? Why hadn't he said something about considering her for his future wife? When Terri objected to the term mistress, Corrado explained it sounded nicer in Italian.

"In Italy, we call the two people friends. The woman is a man's amica and he is her amico. It's all very natural. It's you Anglo-Saxons who've complicated this thing."

"Well, in any event," Terri said firmly, "I've never been any man's mistress nor do I ever intend to be. I'm an independent woman who would never rely on a man's handouts, and I should think any man would prefer a woman who chooses not to be a mistress, so that he could be certain she loved him for himself. And besides," she teased, "it's I who should be asking you to be my gigolo, my stud. That's more my style."

"I'm flattered by your offer," he said. "You are the first woman to ever ask. I would have expected I was too old to qualify. After all, I'm getting close to 40 — I'm 37, practically an old man. Are you sure that's not too ancient for your stud?"

"It's perfect," Terri said winding her arms around his neck and kissing him. They made love again, after which he said, "We can be together, and I will be your stud forever if that's what you want."

"What about that big blond?" Terri asked, in spite of herself.

"Ingeborg, you mean? But it's nothing serious. She's just a friend."

"Your amica?" Terri prompted.

"My amica -- of sorts."

"If you already have a mistress, why did you suggest, even indirectly, my playing that role in your life?" Terri said, hoping he would list any number of reasons.

"Whoever said a man should be restricted to merely one mistress?" he asked.

"I couldn't imagine — " Terri searched for words. "Who would need — "

"But this is only normal," Corrado protested. Then he opened up more, elaborating on his personal life, on things she had no idea of and could never have imagined. As he spoke, Terri became increasingly alarmed. She almost could not believe it when he told her that his crippled wife of ten years, whom she had never heard of before this instant — Valentina was her name — was now confined to a wheel chair, the result of a hunting accident. They had two children, a boy and a girl, ages seven and nine. Wife! Children! She had never thought, never suspected ... it simply had not occurred to her that he might be married. First a mistress with a twin who was also a part of his ménage, and now this wife —

And then he was off again, in town again, out again. It was bad enough about the twin mistresses, but on top of everything else he pulls this crippled wife out of a hat. Where was the future in this for her? And what was the alternative? Tune him out? She was in love with this son of a bitch, dammit all.

Could she cure herself of an addiction like no other she had ever imagined in her life?

7.
Vic's hidden camera was grinding as the towel around Nick Condon's waist popped open and his erection jutted against Jasmine's crotch. The video caught his hands easing under her buttocks, her pelvis arching up to meet his, and her legs moving along his thighs.

Later, in a post-coital twilight zone, Nick told her, "I'm afraid of falling in love with you! I fear being vulnerable! And yet, I can't help myself." He sighed. "I know it sounds crazy," he said. "What can I expect, what can I offer? What do you want that I have to give? Why am I thinking about you day and night? Why can't I get you out of my mind? Why are you the one thing that makes me feel happy?"

"This guy's got it bad, Harry," Vic said.

Nick still wasn't satisfied about her lifestyle. "What do you do on all these trips? What other life do you have, apart from me? I've tried to fantasize it."

"I told you," she replied. "I tend to my mafia business."

He laughed, still taking it all as a joke. Then he said, "I'm curious about your other men. Who do you fuck?"

"Whom do you fuck?" Jasmine corrected the senator's grammar, and then answered his question, "Nobody important. Nobody in your league."